Chapter 48: The Arrogance of the Holy Lord

Until the moment he was attacked, Danic still hadn’t realized what was happening. Among the myriad powers his opponent had displayed, there were countless things that demanded caution—but drawing a gun? What was that supposed to mean?

Unlike most traditional magi, Danic prided himself on keeping pace with the times. Even the homunculus guards of Yggdmillennia were armed with firearms on his orders. Still, this measure was merely to take advantage of the homunculi’s fearlessness in battle, using the weapons as a means of distraction. In a true mage’s duel, guns could never determine the outcome, and within the boundaries of his own workshop—transformed into a dreamscape—even if he allowed himself to be hit by such low-mystery weapons without resistance, nothing would happen.

Could it be that Caster’s Master, seeing the situation was hopeless, simply wanted an excuse to withdraw?

Enlightenment dawned on Danic. As someone with a political mind, he instantly filled in Roland’s supposed line of thought and, with absolute confidence, deployed his magical barrier.

Sure enough, even large-caliber bullets were stopped cold before Danic’s shield. But the power contained within those bullets would not be so easily dispelled.

Bound by occult connections, Danic hadn’t yet grasped what had happened when agony exploded through his body. His nerves and internal organs were torn to shreds.

Not even a scream escaped his lips before blood spewed from his mouth. His whole body convulsed uncontrollably as shattered nerves fired wildly. The magical circuits that once channeled his prana misfired and rampaged, irreparably ruined.

Roland flicked open the cylinder, letting the faintly smoking shell casings fall away.

For a magus, Emiya Kiritsugu’s Origin Bullets were as lethal as a killer’s first strike. Their effectiveness was only heightened by a mage’s innate disdain for firearms.

After acquiring the Origin Bullets, Roland realized how much better they were than any wand for dealing with magi!

More than half of the Magus Killer’s fearsome reputation came from those bullets. If not for their limited number, his record would have been even more dazzling.

Danic collapsed to his knees, barely conscious, clearly incapacitated—yet Roland’s expression betrayed surprise.

“You’re still alive?”

Someone struck by an Origin Bullet ought to be unable to channel prana at all, suffering catastrophic internal backlash—and yet, though grievously wounded, Danic had not lost consciousness.

Lancer strolled unhurriedly to Danic’s side and helped him up, showing not the slightest concern for the current state of affairs.

Such a situation was proof enough: since the Third Holy Grail War, this man’s condition had become even stranger than Roland remembered.

“How remarkable—to compress an Origin with soulcraft and manifest it within the victim. No wonder escape is impossible, even in a dream. There can’t be many Masters in this Holy Grail War capable of withstanding such an attack.”

With Lancer’s support, Danic laboriously rolled his eyes toward Roland.

“Am I qualified now?”

“More than enough. Let’s form a pact.”

Roland’s eyes lit up. Without another word, he placed his mark upon the parchment.

“Now, I’ll go observe the other pairs. If there’s any need, just send a familiar to this area, and I’ll come to you.”

With that fragile alliance secured, Roland departed Danic’s workshop with Caster in tow.

“That old worm was hiding something, as expected. Perhaps he sought Danic not just to prevent the theft of the Greater Grail. Caster, did you sense anything unusual about that man just now?”

“Hardly more than a cripple. His own rampaging prana has devastated him internally—he probably won’t live much longer.”

Caster sounded perplexed. “But even so, his contract with Lancer hasn’t fluctuated, and his physical body seems odd to me.”

“I can sense his soul’s presence, yet it’s faint and flickering, as if the body isn’t truly his own. Yet when he activated his magecraft, there was nothing amiss—something impossible if he were truly using another’s body.”

Roland lifted his gaze to the night sky. “Yes, it’s very strange. And Enkidu—the relic for summoning that Heroic Spirit shouldn’t exist in this world. How did he...?”

As Roland pondered, Caster asked cautiously, “Master, do you truly intend to honor that pact? After what you did to him, he still feigns such respect. Such cunning cannot be trusted.”

“Is he even worthy of consideration?”

Roland examined the invisible fetters upon his soul, and for the first time, the arrogance he kept masked behind his gentle façade bared its fangs.

“Does a mayfly, whose life is but a day, truly think a mere oath could bind me?”

Unlike Kira Yoshikage’s overt manipulations, the Lord’s influence was subtle and insidious. Roland’s pride was not the arrogance of scorning all others; thus, he could still cooperate with Walong, still entice other mortals. Yet this semblance of equality was, at its core, the condescension of the mighty. He was a mighty demon of fire, a noble dragon—ageless, undying. All things save his kin were, to him, fundamentally different.

Even Jackie Chan only won the Lord’s recognition as a true rival after defeating him many times, the Lord deeming his body suitable for hosting his soul.

Making a promise to others felt like amusing a pet—if anyone dared to invoke a contract to demand something from him, that would be the height of presumption.

“Caster, lend me your Noble Phantasm.”

“Eh?” Startled by Roland’s command, Medea reflexively produced her All-Purpose Mystic Breaker Talisman. “What do you intend to do with it?”

“To dissolve the contract, of course. I can’t stand having such a repugnant thing clinging to me. Let Danic fulfill it unilaterally.”

At Roland’s words, Medea hastily concealed the dagger. “If that’s all, can’t you do it yourself? Using this Noble Phantasm would dissolve our own Master-Servant pact as well.”

“Huh?” Roland stared at her, puzzled. “What do you mean, I can do it myself?”

“You didn’t know?” Medea was the one surprised now. “With your soul, which can generate True Ether and surpass even the gods, how could a contract among mortals possibly restrain you?”

After spending some time together, Medea had come to understand Roland better. “The indomitable spirit in your soul is unlike anything I’ve ever seen—it is innately free. Even beings as exalted as yourself would require at least four, ideally seven, of their kind to fully bind you with a contract.”

“Is that so?” Roland instinctively touched the newly-forged pact. As Medea had said, with a mere twist of his will, the contract slipped away, powerless.

Confronted with this result, even Roland was momentarily at a loss for words.

So, when the Lord said “as everyone knows,” it was not self-aggrandizement, but simply a statement of fact?